


Fresh Ink

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mickey wakes up, the first thing that he realizes is that he has no idea where he is.<br/>The second thing he realizes is that he feels like tiny men went to war in the folds of his skull.<br/>The third and perhaps most important thing he realizes is that he's half naked and that he's being used as a teddy bear, with arms doing an impressive imitation of a boa constrictor around his stomach, sweaty flesh pressed against his back and a leg flung over his thigh. </p><p>(Mickey wakes up hung over after Lips bachelor party to discover and interesting development has occurred. Takes place in "Ticket is His Fist" universe but that's really not important to this fic at all)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Ink

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this idea and I HAD to write a oneshot of it before someone else thought of it so sorry I haven't updated "Ticket in his Fist" yet, but this needed to exist. Enjoy!

     When Mickey wakes up, the first thing that he realizes is that he has no idea where he is. 

     The second thing he realizes is that he feels like tiny men went to war in the folds of his skull.

     The third and perhaps most important thing he realizes is that he's half naked and that he's being used as a teddy bear, with arms doing an impressive imitation of a boa constrictor around his stomach, sweaty flesh pressed against his back and a leg flung over his thigh. 

     He freaks out for approximately five seconds before he gains more control of his senses and recognizes that it’s Ian trying to absorb Mickey through the flush of his freckled skin and into that obnoxiously bright light he calls a soul. He'd know the beat of Ian's breath and the spark of his skin and the smell of his closeness anywhere. It's nothing knew- he spends almost every night the willing victim of his sleep-clingy Gallagher. 

     Mickey feels the pain in his head dim as he hooks his wrists over Ian’s forearms and tugs them into his stomach. He keeps his eyes shut, creases rippling from the corners as he squeezes them. He’s trying to drink in the safety of Ian, hoping it will pool in his gut like courage and give him the will to open his eyes so he can figure out where the fuck they are. Of course he’s not so sure he wants to know what the sticky substance that’s coating his toes and squirting up from the cracks between them when he wiggles his feet actually is.

_1,2,3…..3.5….oh fuck it._

     His lids jump open, rolling back into his sockets like a window shade let go of halfway through being pulled down. His pupils bounce in blue irises, wrestling with the blast of light. Mickey groans as the tiny men in his brain launch a bomb strike.

     He takes in the shrapnel of a party. _Lips Bachelor party,_ he remembers _._

     Suddenly the synthetic rainbow fuzz of an afro wig on the head of a chubby (also shirtless) stranger who’s draped unconscious over a fallen barstool, theshower of green confetti shaped like breasts that falls from his hair when he turns his head and the massive hangover make a lot more sense.

     Not complete sense however, because Mickey has no clue what happened after the third round of shots. The only things he can recall are blurry flashes of the pulse of a bass shattering his ear drums and Ian’s teeth puncturing his shoulder during a drunken round in the bathroom and vague little memories of Ian’s cock warm and hard as it dug sloppily into his ass and Ian’s moans and Ugh.

 _Of course_ all he can remember is Ian.

     He must have gotten in a fight, likely with a brick wall, because his knuckles sting almost as badly as the first time he went in the ring with Pedro.

     He blinks and fruitlessly attempts to puzzle together how he went from fully clothed, glaring at Ian who was laughing at Mickey’s discomfort among the stream of techno music and strippers, to the mostly naked and _very publicly_ cuddling with Ian on the floor of some posh New York club Lip had rented out for the night.

     He blames the vial grape color poison that masquerades under the name of “Purple Nurple”.

     Mickey turns in Ian’s arms to look at him, the skin on the underside of his thigh squeaking as it twists against the polish on the floor and what he really hopes is just sweat. He looks peaceful, but Mickey knows all to well he’s in for a world of pain when he wakes up. 

     Ian’s head is leaning on a pink plastic flamingo in a way that can’t be comfortable. He’s curled tightly around Mickey and he can feel soft prickles of orange hair from Ian’s shin make dents on his hipbone. The earth-green of Ian’s eyes are hidden behind the rose stretches of his eyelids and a strand of droll is leaking from the corner of the upwards curve of his lips. It makes Mickey smile because, only Ian Gallagher can _droll_ and still be stupidly endearing.

     His smile quickly dives downwards and is swapped with a scowl when Mickey notices “FAG” has been sharpied across Ian’s forehead. Anger slithers up from his gut and the fiery snake of the feeling possesses his voice box with a growl.

     If he finds out who the asshole that wrote that is, they’re a dead man walking.

 _A very, very, dead man,_ Mickey thinks as he licks the heel of his hand and gently scrubs at the letters until they become black smudges streaking Ian’s brow and black stains inking the thin red curls that frame his hairline. He looks around to make sure all the people within their vicinity aren’t conscious before dashing his mouth to where the incriminating word was and erasing it’s memory with a kiss.

       Ian gives a sleepy hum at the touch, but Mickey knows he’s starting to come to when it turns into a pained croak fallowed by a, “Holy fuck. Ow,” and the scrunching of his features. The expression sends wrinkles onto the bridge of his nose and the base of his eyebrows, causing him look like an overgrown rabbit.

     Mickey will never admit he finds it adorable.

     Ian’s eyes open, exposing Mickey’s favorite color in the entire universe (he will deny that one to his death bed too, although he’s pretty sure he ranted about it when he was really stoned one time, so Ian probably knows anyways) for just shy of a second, before they snap closed again. This repeats three times until his eyes settle against the assault of light and sharp reflections from the boob confetti that seems to be coating everything. He looks at Mickey.

     “Hey,” he says, wince turning into a lazy grin as he takes in their closeness.

     Mickey feels the muscles on his face twitch into a smile too. Without moving from Ian’s hold, he slides an arm up so his chin is cradled in the dip of his palm, elbow grinding against the wood of the floor as it takes weight of his head. He reaches his free hand down to Ian’s face, stroking the callused side of his index figure lightly down Ian’s temple, brushing it down his jaw then curving it back up to thumb behind the redhead’s ear.

     “Hey,” he answers.

     Ian’s full on beaming now, and Mickey thinks he looks unfairly radiant for someone who just woke up, not to mention for someone who just woke up with a headache to rival that of a brain tumor patient’s and mouth that tastes like stale vodka and the sour tang of leftover fruit flavoring.

     “So…Any idea what happened last night? I don’t remember much past the third round of shots.”

     Mickey smirks, because a part of him is experiencing a weird rush of pride that they had the exact same thought process. _Eleven years do that,_ he thinks.

     “Nauwh man, all I can remember is you fucking me in the bathroom and really shitty music.”

     It’s Ian’s turn to smirk, smugness seeping into the half-moon shape of his lips.

     “All I remember is you moan-“

     “Oy! As much as I’d love to hear you two recount the details of your drunken sex lives, we need this place cleaned up in an hour, so if you’d kindly remove your asses from the floor and start sweeping that’d be fucking fabulous,” Lip interrupts, calling from over by the bar.

     Mickey grimaces at the thought of moving, the annoyance on his face deepening as Ian peels away and stands.

     He looks down at the disgust on Mickey’s face and laughs. It’s a rich rolling sound that should probably hurt his currently sensitive ears, but only makes him think of cinnamon and sunshine all at the same time.

     “Oh, come on Mick, it’s not that bad,” Ian says, winding his neck to glance at the bar where Lip’s standing gesturing to Kevin and one of his MIT buddies, “Lip’s got Frank’s famous hangover cure lined up for us.”

     “Is that supposed to fucking tempt me? That shit tastes like Iggy’s piss.”

     “I bought Jello last night, it’s in the fridge at the hotel. How’s that for temptation?”

     Mickey shoots up and arched brown eyebrow and threads his bottom lip in and out of his front teeth, trying his best to glare at the amusement on Ian’s face and the perkiness of his outstretched hand.

     He grabs the hand and lets Ian swing up him, eyes blowing wide when Ian decides it will be really funny to use all of his ex-military strength on Mickey’s arm and watch him stumble and curse as he stands far to fast.

     “Fuck you Gallagher.”

     Ian just laughs again and bumps a disgruntled Mickey’s shoulder as they walk to the bar.

     “Good you’re up,” says Lip who looks every bit as hung-over as they are, with purple sweeps bagging under his eyes and shocks of blond hair spraying from his scalp in every direction, “Down your medicine, brooms are by the door. Ian do me a favor and find Carl, would you? Last time I saw him he was heading to the bathroom with a wig and a lighter.”

     Ian nods and tips his head back, a giving a look of pure displeasure as the contents of his glass sludge down his throat.

     Mickey locks a hand around his drink, pads of his fingers flattening against the cold glass. The raw eggs bob ominously in the Tabasco sauce as he lifts it to his mouth.

     He’s about to take a sip when he hears Ian choke on his last swallow.

     He whips his neck to the sound in worry, only to find his Gallagher doubled over with laughter, red blooming into his cheeks as he gasps for air.

     “Ian, what’s so-“ Lips starts, but fallows his brother’s eyes to Mickey and breaks off into electric cackles.

     “What the fuck is so funny?”

     They’re both laughing too hard to answer him even if they wanted to.

     “Mick,” Ian pants finally, a burst of giggles fallowing the word, “Mickey your hands.”

     Mickey clunks his glass unto the bar and raises his hands in front of his face, squinting at the lines of the underside. He’s flipping them over to inspect his knuckles when he spots it: an addition to the tattoos on his fingers.

     They now read, “FUCK U-UP THE ASS”

     As Ian and Lip explode with renewed fits of laughter, Mickey decides he hates everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> There's this really nice button under this author's note that reads "comment" and another pretty cool one that reads "kudos". I would strongly advise clicking them. It's a good life decision really. Thanks for reading!


End file.
